Flung out of doors by the latest
statistics, standing in rain and
snow, fingers colored by cold,
all for pleasure, he thought,
“I never meant to not do it right.
How did I get here, to this? How did
it all come to this?” Swilling
the smoke through his lips, his teeth,
smoke in great raging furnaces around
the soft inside flesh of his cheeks,
blackening his teeth. While outside,
exposed to fierce weather his nose
changed color, paled to white and his
lashes froze into teensy tiny icicles,
each containing one fragile hair.